


the first time i saw the ocean (it was in your eyes)

by FlashMountain



Series: a series of firsts (in a way) [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bored Boys in swimming trunks and ‘scoops shorts, First Time, Gay Billy Hargrove, Harringrove, M/M, Plot What Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Reluctant Friends To Something More, Steve Harrington Is a Mess, Summer of ‘85, To begin with, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashMountain/pseuds/FlashMountain
Summary: “Hey”, he starts, tongue wagging all annoyingly, eyes raking down Steve’s body like they apparently do, now. And he kinda wants to hide now too, feels off kilter in glorified pj’s with Hargrove going full California charm on him. The whole thing makes him feel off kilter. The way he’s got Hargrove on his porch like they’re friends, like he’s got the right to ask Steve for shit. He’s shaking a baggie in front of him, lets Steve get an eyeful of prerolled joints, get a whiff of the smell. “This cover the cost of a ticket?”, he says like a total asshole, still smiling like that, all sharp and fucked up and too fucking radiant. And listen, maybe Steve’s getting a bit desperate, maybe he’s taking it all too far. Maybe his dad’s right, he’s got a damn drug problem, if he’s inviting Billy fucking Hargrove into his house for some probably-ok weed.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: a series of firsts (in a way) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680061
Comments: 52
Kudos: 224





	the first time i saw the ocean (it was in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a series I’ve been dying to share since forever, this is really just plotless smut and a dash of angst, but the further we go, the more the plot will thicken. Hope you enjoy!

Fuck, he hates Wednesdays. The way they just exist to make his life just that much more terrible. Robin doesn’t work Wednesdays, leaves him to suffer surrounded by ice cream and snotty kids. Wednesdays tear at him, makes him _that_ much easier to knock down. So yeah, that’s why he even lets him wander in. ‘Cause it’s _Wednesday_ and Steve doesn’t have the energy to do something about Billy Hargrove waltzing into Scoops Ahoy like he owns the place. He’s decked out in those short lifeguard shorts, _Hawkins Pool_ printed on his tank like he just _has_ to show off that he’s getting paid to sprawl out half naked in the sun and yell at running kids. What an asshole. He leans onto the counter all smug and golden and fucking _radiant_ , like every Wednesday isn’t a repetitive kick in the balls. Steve doesn’t know if he wants to straighten up, use his one inch to tower over Hargrove, or if he wants to hide as much of his fucking _sailor_ suit as possible behind the counter. He stares him down, doesn’t shy away from those blue, shark sharp eyes. Doesn’t return the flash of teeth that is Billy’s smile.

“Ahoy, matey”, he drawls like a fucking _asshole_ , gives Steve’s hat and itchy sailor shirt a once over to add even more insult to injury.

“What do you want?”, and Billy just keeps _smiling_ , and it makes something crawl under his skin, makes him clench his teeth and his fists.

“That’s no way to talk to a paying customer, princess”, and Hargrove hasn’t paid for _shit_ , all he’s done is make Wednesdays that much worse, so far. “Anyway”, he starts up again, like he’s on speaking terms with Steve. Like they’re friends. And they’re _not_ , they’re not even _friendly_. ‘Cause Steve ignored the crumpled receipt with _bleachers, 5th?_ scribbled onto that he found in his locker in march, and Hargrove ignored _him_ after that. “I got my hands on some good shit, and I know your castle’s all empty, so...”, and yeah, _so_? Hargrove’s looking at him all expectedly, blue eyes so fucking _blue_.

”So...?”, ‘cause he really doesn’t get what he’s trying to do, coming to Steve all _stupid_ and probably warm from the summer sun, still. Acting all friendly.

“ _So_ , I’ll be there at nine, and I’ll share”, and he just _smiles_ like that, teeth too white for someone who smokes a pack a day, taps his fingers on Steve’s counter. Like an _asshole_. And Steve kinda wants to ask, _is it cocaine?_ , and he definitely wants to ask, _who the fuck do you think you are?_ , but Billy saunters out before he manages to swallow down too much saliva and open his mouth. Without buying _shit_.

His shift goes by slow, like it always does on Wednesday’s, and the drive home is even slower, ‘cause it’s the worst Wednesday up to _date_ , apparently. It’s seven by the time he’s shrugging out of striped polyester, seven o-three by the time he’s headfirst in bed, groan muffled by his pillow. It’s easier to sleep, when it’s still light out. When the blue of his pool is hidden under the yellow and orange of the burning summer sun. It’s all messed up. Falling asleep at seven to wake up at three, panting, chest heaving. Cheeks wet and too warm. Drag himself to work at eight. Drive home. Repeat.

-

His room is bathing in red, pink, when he blinks awake to a pounding from downstairs, to shrill ringing from the doorbell. He wants to yell. Wants to pretend that he’s not home, ‘cause apparently he’s friendly enough with Billy _fucking_ Hargrove for him to start inviting himself to his house. _Fuck_. He shrugs on the same basketball shorts and tee he’s been wearing around the house for days. Combs through his hair with his hand, heads for the stairs. He takes his sweet time finding his own front door, hopes that _good shit_ is _actually_ something good by like, normal people’s standards. Not Hargrove one’s.

He swings open the front door he forgot to lock to find Hargrove all dressed up. More like he got dressed up, and then undressed. Shirt not even buttoned _once_ , all bloodred and loose around his gleaming torso. It’s not the same shirt, not the red one he wore _that_ night, almost unbuttoned, lipstick red stained with blood, after. His jeans sit _low_ , tight around his thighs and all the way down to his calfs. He’s chewing on a cigarette, smile all dangerous, eyes too.

“Hey”, he starts, tongue wagging all annoyingly, eyes raking down Steve’s body like they apparently do, now. And he kinda wants to hide now too, feels off kilter in glorified pj’s with Hargrove going full California charm on him. The whole _thing_ makes him feel off kilter. The way he’s got Hargrove on his porch like they’re _friends_ , like he’s got the right to ask Steve for shit. He’s shaking a baggie in front of him, lets Steve get an eyeful of prerolled joints, get a whiff of the smell. “This cover the cost of a ticket?”, he says like a total _asshole_ , still smiling like that, all sharp and fucked up and too fucking radiant. And listen, maybe Steve’s getting a bit desperate, maybe he’s taking it all too far. Maybe his dad’s right, he’s got a damn _drug problem,_ if he’s inviting Billy _fucking_ Hargrove into his house for some probably-ok weed.

He turns around, makes his way to up to his room, even though its fucking _stupid_. There’s nowhere to go from there. Nowhere to get out if, big shocker, Hargrove goes haywire on him. But he doesn't really _care_ , and the sun is setting, and the promise of getting high is too good to resist. ‘Cause it’s too much _work_ to find someone who’ll sell shit to him when he’s not friends with Tommy and Carol. When he doesn't leave the house for anything else than work or kid shit. Hargrove follows him, heavy steps on the stairs, fingers tracing walls and edges of furniture like he can’t keep his hands to himself.

Steve’s room isn’t personal, to him. He doesn’t feel _exposed_ , when Billy takes in the plaid and matched furniture and clothes all over the floor. Feels a little stupid, wants to say that he didn’t pick out any of this shit. _Hates_ that he wants to explain himself to Billy fucking Hargrove. Hargrove plants his ass on Steve’s rumpled sheets, toes off his boots, sighs all relaxed like they’re all buddy-buddy. Gets comfortable on Steve’s bed. Looks at him all squinty eyed when Steve just stands by the door, like _Steve’s_ the one acting fucking crazy. Out of the ordinary. His hands are all tingly, his arms feel unnatural where they hang at his sides. _Fuck it_. Hargrove’s got a joint out already, lights it with his shitty white bic, doesn't even ask if Steve’s okay with him lighting up without even opening a damn window. It’s whatever. Hargrove’s less annoying when he holds out the joint, cancels out the not-annoying by patting the bed all, _come here_. Steve sits down at the very edge, stretches out to reach Hargroves deft fingers. Ignores how warm they are where they brush against his own.

It’s good shit. The weed’s _real_ good, makes him hazy from one hit, smoke heavy on his tongue. Hargrove’s laughing all husky at him, steals the joint from his fingers, mutters out a, “Told you it was good shit”, and the fuzzy, dewy heaviness of the pot is making Hargrove a little less annoying. Takes the edge off, a little. _Fuck_ , he missed drugs.

“Fuck”, he drags out, lets his head tip back, blows the smoke upwards, obscures the ugly popcorn ceiling. “Where’d you get this?”, and he glances back at Hargrove, breath hitching when those eyes are already on him. It’s real good weed.

“I don’t kiss and tell”, he answers, ‘cause he’s an asshole who thinks he’s _funny_ , when he’s high.

He’s laying down before he really thinks about it, sprawls out on his bed, Hargrove right next to him. There’s a roach put out in the coffee mug on his bedside table, another one close to joining it. The sun’s set. It’s all dark outside, yellow light dim in his room. He doesn’t think about the pool. He doesnt think about the blue, unnatural light seeping into his room, into his nightmares. He thinks about the warmth of Billy Hargrove next to him, instead. Thinks about a different kinda blue. Wonders if that blue is the same as the ocean.

“Huh?”, and it’s all rumbly, cracking like embers in a fire. He’s high as a goddamn kite.

“Your eyes”, and he’s been talking, murmuring out his thoughts like he and Hargrove are people who share their fucking thoughts. “Is that the color of the ocean?”

He’s _looking_ , again, stares into blue, looks at Hargrove’s jaw working, at lips sucking on a joint he kinda forgot about.

“Kinda”, and he’s looking right back, and it’s less annoying , when they’re high and all fuzzy, lying down in Steve’s bed. Side by side. Close.

Closer, when Steve heaves himself up, balances on his elbow to see _more_ , to find darker blue in the lighter, specs of green so vivid that it’s weird he’s never seen them before. Maybe he’s never really _looked_ , before.

“What’re you doing?”, and it’s all hushed, all soft. _Not_ Billy Hargrove. Maybe a Billy Hargrove he’s never seen before.

“I wanna see the ocean”, he replies, leans _closer_ , studies blue within blue and wonders what kinda creatures hide underneath.

“Like you don’t have some kinda beach house in- in Malibu”, and it’s kinda breathless, quiet and too soft. And he _doesn’t_ have a fucking beach house, doesn’t have _anything_. It’s not the _point_ , he doesn’t care about beach houses in Malibu, or any houses anywhere.

“I’ve never seen the ocean”, and he _hasn’t_ , but it doesn't feel like he’s talking about _oceans_ , even though Billy Hargrove’s eyes look like they’re a part of one. An ocean.

“Yeah? You wanna see it?”, and he’s so _close_ , voice so soft and breath hot with weed and something _else_. And Steve wants . He doesn't know what he wants, can’t name the feeling settling in his chest, bubbling up through his throat. He _wants_. And they’re not talking about the ocean.

“Yeah”, and _god_ , he wants, and Billy Hargrove’s looking at him in some sorta way, eyes all _blue_ and locked on him, so close. They’re so _close_ , all Hargrove has to do is stretch his neck, a little. Reach up to where Steve’s hovering over him, reaches slow and warm and hazy. Touches his lips to his own. Soft. And he _wants_.

It’s a kiss. A touch of lips, a relief. He pulls back slow, and there’s already an apology tumbling out from Hargrove’s lips, and those eyes are all wide, all shock. It’s too easy to lean down, kiss him again. And he doesn't know what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. Knows that there’s an _itch_ under his skin, an itch that's there when Billy Hargrove is. And he wants, wants _something_ , and maybe this is it.

He’s got Billy Hargrove under him, got his tongue slipping into his mouth, got his hands gripping his sides. He’s being turned over, guided by rough fingers and the press of his body, until he’s the one under, until he’s all caged in. _Safe_. And Steve feels alive in a way he hasn’t since he fought off monsters with a homemade bat from hell.

His own hands are wandering, touching sides and hard planes of muscle, tangling themselves into golden curls. The sounds he gets in return makes his head spin, the way lips shape his name. Billy Hargrove’s moaning his name like it belongs in his mouth, like it’s not the first time he’s heard a _Steve_ from him. It’s heady. It’s addictive.

They’re so close, crashing into each other like waves, all desperate and too hot and too much. Steve’s hard, from a kiss and a big hand cradling his jaw, shorts not doing shit to hide it. He knows Billy feels it, ‘cause Steve feels him through those jeans. And he’s never _done_ this, doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he wants Billy closer, wants to feel him. See him. Billy’s trailing wet kisses down his throat, hand guiding his head back, baring him. A hand rucks up his tee, before those lips continue down, touching rips and moles and his nipples, and it’s so _much_ , makes him writhe and groan and push up against Billy. He stops by his hip, bites down, makes Steve look at him. Billy’s saying “Do you wanna do this?” in a voice that makes him shiver, and Steve wants to _much_ but he doesn't know _what_ , and those blue eyes are locked on him, and he gets out a,

“Fuck- _yes_ ”, gets high off the way Billy smiles, like he’s won. And he crawls right up his body, slots himself between Steve’s split thighs, leans down just enough, plasters himself against him. Billy Hargrove kisses like every touch is his last, eats him all up like it’s his last fucking meal. He makes it all messy, slick and heady and overwhelming. And he’s gonna come in his boxers if Billy keeps _exploring_ , touching him like he can’t help himself. But he pulls away, wrenches his mouth from Steves, pulls off that shirt that stayed on for too long, pushes at Steve until he throws off his own, too. They’re giggling like kids when Billy has to shuffle outta too tight denim, laugh stocking in his throat when the jeans are off and Billy’s- naked. It’s a kneejerk reflex, to look away, ‘cause that’s what he _always_ does, wherever there’s a chance to _look_ , ‘cause you’re not _supposed_ to. But Billy’s looking at him, eyes hungry and expectant, so Steve looks back. Lets out a sound, ‘cause Billy looks like a fucking _god_ , kneeling over him, skin all golden and muscles coiled tight. His dick’s hard, all shiny and leaking, and he’s fucking _hung_. It makes his mouth water, seeing Billy curl a hand ‘round himself, and he doesn’t think about that. Doesn’t think about how he has no idea what he’s doing, when he reaches out, covers Billy’s hand with his own. Billy lets out a sound like he’s been _punched_ , keeps his eyes locked on his dick, Steve’s fingers.

“ _Fuck_ , pretty boy, don’t make me come like this”, he gets out, voice so fucking low, rumbly and dangerous and all fucked out. And it’s a rush, the thought of making him come, makes him move his hand a little faster, makes his grip a little tighter. But Billy pulls him off, mutters out a, _fuckin’ brat_ , lowers himself down, again. And Steve’s flimsy shorts don’t hide anything, and he can feel Billy right through them, feels his pre soak through, mix with his own. And it’s all so _much_ , and he doesnt know if it’s because it’s not his own right hand, or ‘cause it’s a guy, or if it’s just Billy _fucking_ Hargrove. He’s moaning, making all kinds of noises like he can’t control himself, but Billy’s saying, _love your noises,_ when he shoves down his shorts, boxers too.

Billy’s nestled between his legs, again, but they’re naked and all _close_ this time. And he wants to sob with the feeling of his dick against Billy’s, with how he doesnt know who’s pre is smeared all over his stomach, his thighs. And Billy’s snapping his hips, rutting against him like- he doesn't really think about what it feels like they’re doing, doesn’t have the _words_ for it. And Billy’s talking again, murmuring, _let me make you feel good,_ against his lips. And yeah, he already feels so fucking good, feels delirious from the way Billy’s all close, until he’s not. Until he’s rolling off him, stretching for something that’s _not_ Steve, and he makes some sorta pitiful noise in the back of his throat, gets a little huff in return.

“Just gettin’ the goods, princess”, and he’s shaking Steve’s bottle of lube in his face, lets Steve pull at him until he’s right where he wants him, all close. Billy’s wrapping a slicked up hand around his dick, and it’s _insane_ how much he likes it, the way his hands are rougher, bigger. Wrapped around him tight, makes it so good. He’s fucking his hips up on reflex, until Billy’s pining him down his one big hand on his hip, the other one letting him go. And he’s so hard it _hurts_ , aching for relief, but Billy’s not giving it to him. He’s whining, hand carding through Billy’s hair, tugging. And Billy lets him, groans a little, dick kicking against the inside of Steves thigh. His hand is moving again, fingers scratching through the hair leading _down_ , trailing over the head, glistening. It’s too much, the barely there touch, and Steve’s gonna fucking come from those fingers, featherlightly tracing the vein bulging out on the side. And those fingers trace lower, cup his balls, makes his toes curl with the way he’s _playing_ with him. No one’s touched him like that, like they’ve got all the time in the fucking _world_ , not even Steve jerks off with more effort than his hand on him and his head in the clouds.

Billy’s going even _lower_ , touching him in places Steve’s never touched himself, not like that. There’s fingers circling his asshole and a voice asking him if it’s _okay_ , and Steve has no idea what they’re _doing_ , but he hasn’t felt this good in too long, doesn't know if he’s _ever_ felt as good as he’s doing with Billy over him, around him. In him. ‘Cause there’s a slick finger inside a’ him, and it’s so weird, it’s _unnatural_ , but Billy’s kissing his stomach, licking over his cockhead, and it feels so fucking good. It feels too _much_ , and he can’t get out words, can only curl his fingers into his bedsheets, throw his head back.

Billy’s got two deft fingers working his ass, stretching him. Preparing him. And if that doesnt send a shiver of fear and pure fucking lust down his spine. ‘Cause Billy’s _big_ , all thick and leaking. And he’s preparing him for- for something Steve never lets himself think about. And he’s talking, saying shit like, _you’re gonna feel real good,_ and his fingers are curling inside him until they find something. And Steve feels like he’s set on _fire_ , nerve endings frayed as Billy’s fingers brush against _something_ , thighs twitching, stretching to open up even more, invite him in.

“ _Fuck_ , thats- you’re so good, shit, _Billy_ ”, and his voice is shot to hell, words slurred like he’s still floating from the pot, ‘cause of Billy and his fingers _inside_ him, finding some sorta spot that makes him feel like he’s gonna come without being fucking touched.

“Bet you say that to all the boys”, and Billy sounds all breathless, quiet like he’s not expecting an answer, and Steve wouldn’t be able to talk, can’t _think_ , ‘cause Billy’s moving his fingers all fast, fucking him with them. And there’s _been_ no other boys, never, ‘cause it’s not _allowed_ , those thoughts he doesn't think aren’t allowed. But Billy makes it feel so fucking _good_ , makes him feel like he’s about to shake apart, fall right open.

He comes with three fingers in his ass and Billy’s lips wrapped just around the head of his dick. He’s _shouting_ , it’s too intense and he’s twitching, the whole of him shaking under Billy. And Billy laps up his come like he _likes_ the taste of it, and that rips another groan outta his throat, makes him close his eyes.

Billy’s moving, makes his way back up, stretches out, the hand he had in Steve now wrapped around his weeping dick, face buried in Steve’s neck. He’s moving erratically, fucking is fist, biting Steve’s throat, muffling groans and moans that sound too much like _Stevie_. He spills over his own fist, Steve’s heaving stomach. It burns, the feeling of Billy marking him up, having his come, his scent, on his skin.

Billy stays close, clings to him, works through his orgasm with his head by Steve’s shoulder. He wants to wrap his arms around him, grip him tighter with his thighs. He’s still floating from it, from coming hard enough to see _stars_ , can feel the way Billy touched him, was _inside_ him. He has no idea what they’re doing. Doesn’t know what’ll happen, _why_ this happened. Doesn’t wanna think about that shit. Wants to see those _eyes_ , wants to keep Billy _close_ like he has a right to.

He’s prepared to fall the fuck a sleep, distracted by the gold of Billy, doesn't think about the wrong kinda blue, has a hand kinda resting in Billy’s sweat tousled curls. But he can’t, doesn’t, ‘cause Billy kinda _tenses_ , over him. Lifts his head from where he rested, jaw ticking, eyes darting from Steve to something else and not back. And he’s rolling off the bed, stretching too casually, finds his shirt on the floor. Puts it on, doesn’t look at Steve. And there’s some kinda feeling, gripping him. _Paralyzing_ him. And he’s still working through the rush of _Billy_ , body still tingling and loose, and Billy’s _leaving_ , shuffling into his jeans, toeing on his boots. And he can still feel Billy’s fingers working him from the inside, but he can’t feel _Billy_ , pressed against him, warm and real and _there_. ‘Cause he’s walking out the door, saying “Shame I didn’t fuck you, this time”, and Steve can’t fucking _breathe_ , listens to the front door close, a car door open. Engine screaming. And there’s a sick sorta guilt, a _loneliness_ , acidic in his stomach, and everything was _fine_ a minute ago, and now he’s shivering, too cold and burning up all at once.

He doesnt fall asleep. Doesn’t think about that blue, the blue Barb died in, though. There’s another sorta blue on his mind, the ocean, and there’s tears in his eyes, and he doesn't _care_ , doesn’t care about Billy fucking Hargrove. ‘Cause he made him feel so fucking _good_ , found something inside a’ him, made Steve think about shit he’s not allowed to know about. But he _left_ , took his golden California skin and smile and charm and left Steve all _lonely_ , with a sickly, too cold hand gripping his heart.

-

He comes back to it at seven fortythree, blinks like all he did was close is eyes, for a second. Doesn’t remember his dreams. He wakes up all sweaty, sheets and blankets tangled up and reeking. Weed and stale cologne and _come_ all mixed up and gross. Steve kinda wants to _cry_ , from that. Cry ‘cause of that lonely kinda feeling. Cry ‘cause Billy _fucking_ Hargrove made him feel like- _fuck_.

Everything’s gonna change.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for makin’ it this far, I’d love to hear what you think! Good? Bad? Just let me know. 
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr, @awickedplacethisis


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